


Ingrained Behavior

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fingerfucking, Future Fic, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:16:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows exactly how to please a woman.  One very specific woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ingrained Behavior

His hand slips under the hem of her skirt- the left hand, always the left.

 

She had tried once, not so long ago, to coax the golden hand to take its place.  A foolish fancy, to be sure- but she had thought that perhaps…maybe, possibly…

 

After all, she’d spent enough wicked, giggling nights with Mya and Myranda to know how to make use of a smooth, solid, inert object…it might be better, it could bring her closer…

 

But then, there had been the twisting of Jaime’s face, the knitting of his brows, the grinding of his molars and the huffing of breath through his nostrils.  

 

She did not try it again.  

 

It is better for him this way, she supposes- but the twitch in his cheek and the tightening of his jaw do not cease.  And when it is through, she knows that he will feel the need to offer an explanation- it’s his left hand’s fault, it’s all but useless, there’s nothing more to be done.

 

Sansa always swats aside the apologies ( _but no, they aren’t apologies, not really_ ), diverting his attention or changing the subject in a way that might be considered courteous.  

 

Yet it is not courtesy that motivates her, but rather the need to silence the words that bubble against her lips, yearning for release-

 

Yes, his left hand lacks the legendary dexterity of Jaime’s right.  But as his fingers trail over the skin of her inner thigh, venturing upward and into her smallclothes, she realizes once again that the problem is much deeper and more permanent than Jaime can acknowledge.

 

In spite of their slight clumsiness, the fingers of his left hand know where to go.  They apply deliberate pressure, they trace specific patterns.  Jaime’s green eyes flutter shut, and his hand moves quicker, harder, surer.  The motions seem to originate from somewhere beyond his wrist, perhaps from his very heart center, from a place that houses an innate, primal understanding of how to please a woman.

 

How to please one very specific woman.

 

Sansa’s kneecaps grind hard into the seat of Jaime’s chair, and she feels a cramp in her thighs from where she holds her muscles taut, all in an effort to keep from squirming against his hand.  His eyes remain closed, but she knows what she would see if he chose to look at her- frustration, perhaps even affront, and certainly confusion, certainly befuddlement at her inability (her  _refusal,_ he’d surely think) to find her peak as he touches her.

 

And she can understand those feelings well, for her own frustration buzzes through her body at a dizzying speed.  A kernel of heat builds in the pit of her stomach; she knows not whether it’s the burgeoning anger or a hint of arousal…but even if the latter is true, she shan’t make it much closer, not like this…

 

The moment her fingertips close around his wrist-the moment she tries to guide him away from the spot he’s been determinedly circling for far too long, over to where she desires his touch- she realizes her mistake.

 

His hand immediately goes limp in her grasp.  A heaviness pools in Sansa’s heart as she pulls the hand up and a little to the right, just dead weight pressing against her sex, the only motion caused by her own manipulations.

 

His eyes slowly creak open, with a terrifying flash of fury that dissipates almost instantly.  A sullen expression casts his beautiful face in shadow, drawing petulant lines around his mouth and vexed wrinkles on his brow.  It’s all painfully juvenile; Sansa would nearly find it comical, if not for the memory of Sweetrobin conjured by the jut of Jaime’s pouting lips.  

 

She feels her heart quicken- with panic, not with anticipation- and she braces one hand on the back of Jaime’s chair to anchor her as she uses the other to sweep Jaime’s fingertips in quick circles around her clit.  

 

Sansa tilts her head and leans down, trying to wipe the frown from Jaime’s mouth with a kiss, but he turns his face away, giving her nothing but the rough stubble on his cheek.  

 

And now it is her turn to close her eyes, to block out that which she finds disappointing, and to wonder, as she has wondered so many times before, whether she will spend her life fighting and struggling and strivingfor even the smallest of pleasures.  

 


End file.
